Trust
by annagallis
Summary: Jealousy, angst, desire - unfortunately all of the fluffy variety (again). Not demanding in any way, just escapist daydreaming.


_**TRUST**_

"Whoa there! Whoa! Hold up!" He brought the bays to a shuddering halt some twenty yards short of the other coach, which was lying on its side almost in the ditch, one of the horses nowhere to be seen, the other standing, trembling, with a gash across one foreleg, amongst the wreckage of the traces. His concern showed in his face but as he leant across her and wrapped the furs more closely around her, he kissed her discreetly and said quietly "I think you had better stay here, Margot, while I inspect the damage." She nodded and he jumped down, made his own horses fast and strode off. She watched his tall figure receding, the powerful silhouette gilded by the westering sun, and she mused on how reassuring it would be for the victims of this disaster to find his strength and resourcefulness, his kindness and good cheer, turned to their account. She watched him as, quickly and quietly, he first examined the horse's wound and then led her out of the broken spars and tethered her to a nearby tree; then, turning to the coach, he called out, "Is anyone hurt there?" and knocked on the roof; hearing no reply, he climbed on to the side; she heard his cry of exclamation, though not the words, and saw him open the door, allowing it to fall back, then lean in and lower himself inside.

She heard his voice again, muffled now, and a woman's; some moments passed and then she also heard a low groan, a man's groan: someone _was_ hurt then. She hoped not badly – they were a long way out of London, and although there was a surgeon of sorts in Richmond, not one whom Percy trusted. She was considering this when he suddenly reappeared, climbing out of the coach and returning to where she waited.

"It's Maybury, my dear; I think he has a broken arm but that seems to be the only injury. He's travelling with a… young.. woman" he added, "not his wife." He glanced up at Marguerite; it was clear to him that Maybury's companion was not perhaps an altogether virtuous young person, and he sometimes forgot that despite her brother's best efforts to protect her, having spent some years in the Paris theatre Marguerite had not been so sheltered as not to have become aware of the seamier side of life: his wife's dainty demeanour sometimes concealed a surprising knowledge of the ways of the world. To his relief he could see she was amused – although whether at the circumstances, or more at his own discomfiture, he could not tell.

"The thing is", he went on, "I think we shall have to bring them both home to stay with us for a few days, at least until Maybury's well enough to be sent on his way – but a few days only, I hope…" Here he paused, and scanned her face: he knew she disliked Maybury, did not trust him; and for himself, he was reluctant to risk the gossip which would almost certainly drag his wife's name into connection, however brief, with Maybury's young travelling companion, "but", he continued, "I can see no alternative I'm afraid, Margot; Maybury's in no state to travel onwards at the moment."

"No, Percy, I'm sure you're right – there is no alternative; it wouldn't be a kindness to do otherwise, would it? Do you think you'll be able to get him out of the coach? Or is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, sweetheart, thank you, I'm sure I'll manage; thank goodness I always carry my flask with me – perhaps a little cognac will give him heart!"

With that he smiled at her and went back to the coach; a few moments later, with his help the young woman had climbed out, apparently unhurt. Marguerite saw immediately that she was very young, not more than fifteen or sixteen, and very lightly clad – indeed, her shoulders were bare – and she began instinctively to loosen the fur wrap which Percy had so carefully folded around her, when she saw Percy take off his greatcoat and begin to put it around the girl.

Something happened then which, afterwards, Marguerite was unsure was real: as Percy put both arms out around the girl with his coat, she raised both her own arms, put them about his neck, and drew his head down towards hers. Marguerite froze. Percy glanced up at her over the girl's head, and it was only then that the girl seemed to become aware of the other woman's presence, and the other coach; she lowered her arms, stepped away from Percy and slowly turned fully to face Marguerite, and after a moment or two, keeping her eyes on Marguerite's stony face, she dropped a curtsey.

Marguerite averted her gaze, reluctant to acknowledge in any way this gesture of – what, apology? Her mind was racing, her heart pounding; had the girl actually kissed him? Had their lips met? Had he _returned_ the kiss? Would he have returned the kiss, if she had not been there to see? She had never seen any woman embrace Percy in that way, and she could not rid her mind of the image of the girl's arms around his neck, her body pressed against his, his head lowered to hers; she could not _bear_ the thought of the girl's mouth on his – Percy belonged to her, he was hers … he was **hers**!

She was angry, shaken, and ashamed: ashamed at the strength of her reaction, ashamed to admit she was _jealous_… She had always accepted that many other women found Percy as attractive as she did herself, but – perhaps naively, she realised now – the thought had never occurred to her that he might be inclined to take advantage of that. The awful notion now entered her mind that perhaps he was unfaithful to her sometimes.

Although in her heart she knew that of all the men she might have married, Percy was one of the least likely to betray her trust, she felt forced to acknowledge that if he was ever tempted to infidelity, he would have many opportunities: he was away so much… he was a passionate man, and he was apart from her so often! Would he always be able to resist, if temptation were placed so easily in his way?

She cast her mind back to their wedding day and to the vows they had made to one another; she _knew_ that Percy had a strong code of honour and duty, and that the promise he had made then was grave and apparently lifelong; but all the same, he was a passionate man, and he was apart from her so often: a passionate man, and apart from her so often: the thought became a kind of refrain in her mind as it whirled…

Could she trust him to be faithful always to her?

Oh, this was torture!

She forced herself to look back, now, at the girl, who was standing slightly aside; her small figure was completely hidden in the immense grey coat, and Marguerite suddenly recalled the last time he had worn that coat: coming home on the 'Day Dream', knowing she would be waiting for him, and impatient of the tide as always, he had been put off in the gig, and rowed ashore. Her first sight of him was of his tall figure in the caped coat, sitting with two of his men in the little boat; and at his first sight of her, he called across the water to her, and waved his hat; then he had almost run along the harbour wall to greet her, his arms outstretched, to enfold her in that strong embrace she craved these days, where she felt so safe, and knew herself beloved…

Knew herself beloved, and knew him to be truly happy now, with her.

That was the key: he was really happy in their marriage, she knew that; they had more than made amends for their coldness to one another during their estrangement, and since then had achieved a greater understanding than she could have hoped – she believed she might know him better, now, than even Andrew did… and she knew he was happy.

How could she ever doubt him? she wondered now. She knew she must not surrender to jealousy and suspicion: that way lay ruination and despair.

The crisis was past.

She drew her eyes away from the girl and towards Percy as he finally extricated Maybury from the coach. He had sacrificed his cravat for a makeshift sling to take the weight of Maybury's injured arm, and his shirt, open at the neck, accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and showed a triangle of smooth, pale skin at his throat which fascinated her. It had clearly been hot work getting Maybury out and he had doffed his frock-coat; in a gesture totally unfamiliar to her, he had also rolled up his shirtsleeves. The fine linen clung a little to his body and as he supported the older man – indeed, half-carried him – towards their own coach, she could see the muscles flexing in his shoulders, the slight sheen of perspiration on his strong forearms and on that triangle of skin at his neck. "Mon Dieu", she murmured, the thought speaking itself unbidden, "comme il est beau." She suddenly realised that although it felt much longer ago, it had been only that morning when they had awoken together at dawn and afterwards she had lain on his bare chest, and had watched the pulse beating steadily there at his throat…. She blushed; and it was then that Percy suddenly looked up at her, as if he knew what was going through her mind, and he raised one eyebrow, quizzical, then amused. He _knew_! She blushed even more deeply. This was ridiculous – how could he know? Impossible: but yet, she could have sworn that he had guessed what was in her mind. He had the advantage of her: he seemed able, sometimes, to divine her innermost thoughts, whereas there were parts of his nature which she had yet to fathom.

By now they were almost at the coach; Maybury, apparently unable to walk unaided, was still groaning fearfully, and Percy was encouraging him cheerfully: "Come, man, 'tis not so very bad; we'll have the surgeon set your arm" (here a loud moan), "and I'll wager you'll be fencing again in no time!" (another moan). Marguerite looked in turn at the three faces: the girl's, pretty, with dark eyes, rosy cheeks and full lips; Maybury's, grey, sweating, heavily jowled; and finally her husband's: handsome, firm, and so dear to her. She could tell that he was both amused and slightly exasperated at the other man's extravagant self-pity, and it enabled her to regain her own composure somewhat.

Percy now spoke to the girl, who had not looked at Marguerite again since the curtsey: "May I suggest, dear lady, that you get in first – I would, of course, hand you in but I am somewhat encumbered – and then you can perhaps help make his Lordship as comfortable as possible for the journey? We're not far from Blakeney Manor but we shall have to travel quite slowly…"

Maybury, utterly absorbed by his own sufferings, seemed not even to have noticed Marguerite sitting on the box: a slight to which Percy would usually have taken great exception but which, on this occasion, he wisely allowed to pass; the girl climbed in and Percy helped Maybury in after her, the coach swinging heavily as he did so; Maybury was still groaning and Marguerite heard Percy offer more cognac. Finally they were settled and Percy unhitched the horses and climbed up beside her on the box seat; he turned to face her and to her delight he gave her a broad wink. She wanted to giggle but he put his finger to his lips. She nodded and drew closer to him. "Let us go home, dearest", he said, "I want to be there before dark."

He drove steadily, much more slowly than usual though his horses knew the road well, but he was reluctant to jolt Maybury more than necessary. By the time they reached the bridge at the edge of the park, the moon was beginning to rise behind the downs, although there was still light in the clear sky to the west. He had stopped to light the lamps some way back and Marguerite was absorbed in watching the moths which gathered around the glasses. She was sorry when they passed the gates of the park and she knew she would soon have to play the part of sympathetic hostess to a man she very much disliked – and for how long would he be in their house, she wondered.

The flambeaux around the entrance were lit against their arrival and when they drew up to the door she was relieved to see that Frank was the first of the household to appear: Percy would be able to consign Maybury to his care, at least for some of the time until he was well enough to travel again. Sam, too, was there, and took the horses. Percy leapt down and spoke quietly, firstly to Sam – Marguerite guessed he was asking Sam to send someone to walk the injured horse back: he would not have forgotten – then to Frank. She saw Frank's surprise, and his glance at the coach window; then, not standing on ceremony before these two, Percy put his hands to her waist and lifted her down. He whispered to her: "I shall make your excuses, dearest, if you would like to go in first. I'm not sure Maybury's quite sober now. Frank is going to ask Mrs Hazell to attend to the young lady; I think it's probably best not to involve Louise. I shall come up as soon as I can, but don't wait up, sweetheart – I may be a while." With that, he handed her up the steps into the house, kissed her hand, and was gone again into the gloom.

She had reached the landing when Percy and Frank entered the hall, supporting Maybury between them; he was groaning and shrieking by turns and she was relieved when they passed beneath her into one of the small drawing rooms: Percy had evidently decided that until Maybury could be given a draught to quieten him, he should not be put to bed.

When Marguerite reached her own rooms she was glad of Louise's attentions, for she felt uneasy and – although it was not a cold night – she was shivering too. She told herself she was being melodramatic, but she had a feeling of dread, somehow, at Maybury being in their home: she had heard him spoken of as being untrustworthy, and although she did not know the circumstances, she thought it was probably correct. She would have to be on her guard.

Louise told her that one of the boys had already been sent to fetch the doctor from the village; with luck he would be able to concoct some sedative, but she wondered how long it would be before a surgeon would arrive and the broken arm could be set. She knew that in all likelihood it would be some days after that before they would be rid of the wretched man...

These thoughts drifted about in her mind as Louise helped her out of her gown and into a wrap, brushed out her hair and then left to fetch some coffee. While she was gone there was a light tap at the door: Percy, come to bid her goodnight; he would have to see Maybury settled for the night before retiring himself.

"I'm so sorry about this, dearest; the doctor has been summoned but I fear it may be some while yet before I'm able to come up..." He paused and looked at her; again there was that quizzical lift of one eyebrow; "Rather a shame, what – I think we both perhaps would have liked to sit up for a while yet?" She studied his face: full of mischief. He had clearly been intrigued and amused earlier, had read the desire in her face as she gazed at him, and was now gently teasing her. She smiled back at him but made no reply; instead, as he came close to her and put his arms around her, he went on, "I've never liked Maybury - two-faced I've always thought - and I know you dislike him too, but I never imagined he could be such a demmed hindrance! I shall have to put my mind to devising some form of revenge!" He gave her one of those wicked grins she loved so much, and when she laughed he kissed her and was gone.

_THE END._


End file.
